Of Iron and Devils

by B. H. Young

  She could see the group of men on stampeding horses riding up from the distance. Donned in damson and glared with anger, Ered was a cold man whose presence assured that lines had been crossed and punishment was soon to come. A sight of Mathayus reinforcements would bring relief in such a moment, but they were not here to help she knew.

  Dardanos glanced back to the men on horseback and said, "I shouldn't have thought the children of Lord Willem to be alone I should think." He turned back to them cool and without concern. "It is of no matter I tell you."

  The pounding hooves interrupted the conversation as the Mathayus circled them like vultures before taking stop behind her and Lestat and dismounting from their horses. Now Lucinda was scared. Ered paid no mind to Dardanos and stomped up to her with his beady eyes and pointy nose curled. The only man she knew who naturally looked more evil than father, whose face looked of dry leather stretched out over rock. He grabbed her by the shoulders and she winced.

  "You've overstepped your bounds, this time, Lucinda," he said and threw her into the grasp of his two guardsmen. "Lestat, mount your fucking horse and follow us immediately."

  The guardsmen were not gentle in placing her atop her horse. She submitted her eyes at Ered with defeat, the look on his face could melt metal. She still held the ledger and there was a moment she pondered to lash out at him and then make a run for it but then he said, "If you so much as think to speak to me I will tie your tongue to my horse's leg and rip it from your vile poisonous mouth." She knew him to be true to his words. Any man who had killed his own son for a minor betrayal certainly would have no second thoughts to harming his niece.

  But how could they have found them so quick she wondered? Ered was a skilled tracker, but even he could not sniff out their trail with such precision. She rolled her eyes from him to Lestat who stood with a remorseful aura beaming at her. It's not possible, he wouldn't she thought. But telling herself what she wanted to hear did not make it so. He only ever looked like that when he was guilty.

  Ered turned to Lestat pointing him to his horse and said, "Get on your fucking horse now."

  As if the events to unfold could not get any worse, from the west, she saw two Valhur banners in the distance and approaching fast. She never thought to be soothed by the sight of that sigil, but an opportunity was about to present itself. She looked to Lestat firm, hoping he would understand and ready himself.

  "Excuse me, thin man," Dardanos said, "we were having a conversation."

  "Fuck off vagrant," Ered said, still with no recognition, and walked back to his horse.

  "Ok then." Dardanos threw a grin and snapped his arm out to the metal clanking of his custom dwarven made halberd expanding its sections before locking elongated. He lowered the blade towards the ground with the hilt raised up behind his shoulder. "I should think I would like to continue my conversation with them if you please, or if you do not, either way." He shrugged.

  Lucinda tightened the reins under her hands and shifted in saddle. Ered signaled his guards to Dardanos. The Jester of Chaos danced around displaying arrogance with his unique weapon and cut them down as if they were unskilled farm hands. She had never seen someone move so fast. Ered pulled his sword and managed two futile swipes before Dardanos riposte with a swept of his blade slitting Ered's throat with a swift motion. The Valhur soldiers were almost upon them she saw with a panic.

  Lucinda turned her horse and readied to drive heel to hide but Lestat had not moved. His eyes filled with regretful honor and he threw a frown to her and she said, "No, Lestat no!"

  He drew his weapon to Dardanos, who walked among the slain Mathayus men. Lestat rushed him throwing precise strikes wielding out a thunder of metal as Dardanos deflected each of them as if toying with his prey. She wanted to hop from saddle and help him but fear would not allow her to. Dardanos sidestepped Lestat's attack, rolled his halberd across the top of his back, and favored Lucinda a smirk and with a hard swipe lopped Lestat's head off.

  Disoriented in disbelief the very breath fled from her lungs and her face broadened in terror. The tears came quick at Lestat's headless corpse slumped over in the dirt. His frozen expression of pain laid a few inches from his body and stared her with colorless eyes begging for forgiveness. Her screams were deafening even to her as she kicked her horse fast, storming past the smiling maniac who stood calm as a cloud.

  She looked back with blurred sight to Dardanos killing the two Valhur as they pressed on the camp before they even dismounted. Her breath fought to fill her and her heart warped. Lucinda leaned into her saddle, tucked her arms, and kicked her horse harder.

  Chapter 30.

  Squatted with arms on knees, rolling a piece a grass between his fingers, Sylo looked out over the land from the edge of the cliff. Marlo and Jelkin sat their horses at his back. The sour smell of sweat under hammered metal and weaved chainmail no longer carried to him and hadn't for a few now. A different scent had reared its head over the yellow stars of the woodland after he had evaded the pursuing guards. It was faint, speaking out too soon before called upon and then fading. He had taken pause to find it again.

  It was not hard to lose the guardsmen of Theymonhal in the forest. The dense woods weaved no clear trails. Not a terrible obstacle for a skilled rider even atop a lazy horse but city-bred horses with unconditioned riders were not fit to maneuver the packed roots, shrubs and low hanging limbs. City watch guards were never much troublesome when alone, but in numbers, they could manage to muster some inconvenience of skill.

  Jelkin had pulled him away before he could finish the Iron and Marlo had not the chance to pull his knives and shank the other. A valiant effort missed some would say but he knew better. Marlo never failed to pull his knives but divine hands interfered. Jelkin was the lucky one avoiding such intervention. Sylo knew the Gods would be watching and waiting to step in.

  The Iron advanced on him without regard. Violent and brave as all Irons were. He had almost forgotten how quick they were to react with such carelessness to serve justice. Past days of when he dealt their justice was never far from memory. The Iron High Guard was critical in their training of agents under the banner of the law. Emotion and rash thought were always the first to deaden before taught control. The real fear was what happens if the control was lost. Many a soul broke to Iron conditioning, cursed to live out their days as numbed shells absent of any free will. People that weak had no place in this world. The ones who rose above it, grabbed it with forceful hands and dictated it were the true instruments of destruction.

  He could sense the emptiness in the Iron's cold stare. That nothingness glare of honor in his eyes and that whiff of frost under dirt, and he knew the Iron had seen it. The cursed dreams sent to break fragile minds. Another soon to be toy in their play box still holding to false oaths and ignorant meanings, but there was a spark waiting to strike and release a wildfire to scorch all around it. Irons that stiff in their honor to duty do not go quietly if they go at all.

  He flicked the piece of grass from his fingers and stood. The shy scent would not roll out by mistake again and an hour was enough time for it to do so. He climbed atop his horse and gave one last glance over the cliff then rode out between Marlo and Jelkin and they fell in behind.

  The town of Kine Falls laid further off down the road from where the dredwood stood. The tree greeted him as they galloped by, flaunting a brandishing of local justice from its sprawling limbs. Three bodies, hands tied behind backs, heads covered in burlap turned in the wind as a gang of crows secured their feast. They were days old, possibly months but served the towns caution nonetheless. Irons were notorious for serving warnings and it was regular to see their traits mimicked by the common folk. After all, the Iron was not the only wardens of law in the kingdoms, just the highest. The caveats of local justice varied across the world with uniqueness. In Northanos, the city of Snowshallow would bind criminals to wooden poles and fix their heads in a snug iron cage in the center square for all to see. In Lowstaft they would hang th
em by their feet, wrap a chain around their necks, and place a forged weighted ball on the end. With those kinds of showing in the world, one might question why the Iron is needed at all. That was a question he did not care to answer anymore.

  Kine Falls was narrow with red stone dressed in outer frames of ocher wood hugging to the center road of brick. Townsfolk stood watchful staring with concern as Sylo trotted down the road. The sign of intolerance for lawbreakers at the road leading in may scare of fiends and thieves, but did little to sway him from passing through the oddly colored town. Such gazing storms of contempt were regular to him. When he wore the uniform of the Iron, they gawked, when he removed it, they gawked. Two guards leaned on spears studied as if to intimidate with their shaken eyes as he exited the town.

  The sun was clinging, failing in the horizon, smearing a stroke of coral across the sky. The old Kelec Castle stood in ruin and there was not much left of its once great structure. Elder oaks had pushed up under one side of it breaking away the wall as they reached mangled fingers along its flooring. Its lower levels caved in and filled with debris that soil and time had made as one. The castle's small chapel sat downwind from it at the foot of the hill in an equal state of pitiful display. Once home to Galenvor Valhur, it had long laid dormant and served as nothing more than a stop for rest of wildlife and vagrants alike.

  Sylo sat on some crumbled stone studying the map. Lanadors Crossing looked to be the best place to catch Lord Dorat if the mapmakers schedule was correct. The swamplands of the crossing were not too far of a stretch from here. The last life to be taken, clearing the way for his benefactors to finish playing out their deception.

  The Eldafienden, radical criminal fools, Sylo thought, he had seen their namesake in dreams. They were nothing more than rats standing under a title to instill fear onto others while lining their pockets with coin. They were no ancient enemy, far from it. For in visions, he stood on the shores of Dharonwish below the reaching walls of crimson stone and the nightmares that lay beyond them. He knows what waits and what is coming in time.

  Fate was an illusion people gave themselves when the Gods played their games. He would not allow such illusion nor would he submit to a shard of coincidence. They had sent the spymaster across the sea to seek him out and procure his services. The bait for their final jest smelled foul but there was no hesitation in his acceptance.

  "What of the Irons?" Marlo asked as he ran the whetstone against his blade.

  Sylo looked to him coolly and said, "They are of no importance."

  "They have gained ground on us. We should've finished them back in that shit stain village."

  "They had reinforcements from the local guardsmen. No telling how many more were on their way," Jelkin said.

  "The Gods saw fit to intervene as they do, with a different turn of events," Sylo said.

  There was no doubt of his or his men's skill in combat but taking on two Irons and nine city guardsmen would be suicide for any man regardless of ability.

  He did not fear death but nor did he welcome it. Welcoming death was the head of the same coin of taking your own life. And those souls are condemned for eternity to wander the deepest part of the Shadowlands. Gods do not roam those depths and he longs to meet them one day. On that day, there would be no barriers of realms for them to hide behind in safety and they would answer for their actions.

  The darkness had washed over the land as the moon opened its eye fully. He rolled up the map, put it under his coat, and sat to the ground with his back to the wall. The air bite with a slight chill as the nocturnal took stage to sing out. Weariness swept him away with a quickness and the vision came as soon as he shut his eyes, as he knew it would.

  He dreamt of the massive beast wading in the water off the shore. Hunched over with a prolongation to its head and a fat throat with grooves, its arms looked to be hardened flippers bent out at its side with stubby fingers. It hummed a deep worrying song echoing of misery. The ocean carried an armada of ships beneath the large monster as it, little by little approached the land. The ships looked as mere wooden toys beneath its mass. He watched from high atop the bluff as the hellish parade traversed the seas below in the distance. The trumpets carried through the air with thunderous applause revealing faint chanting as they lessened between each gust. The night sky was set afire with a deep ginger behind shades of lead. He had seen this vision before and witnessed the grace of a Leviathan King.

  Sylo awoke steady, opening his eyes to the sparkling black sky above. The dreams did not shake him. Remembering when they first started, they bled in, overtook a common dream, and left him standing in the middle of the village under attack. They had plagued him for months now. Creeping into his sleep like a thief but seemed more frequent and vivid as of late. Shortly after the first dream came, another followed and then another and another. A reoccurring nightmarish collection of visions that always repeated. Magic of some sorts from someone long ago perhaps. Paralyzed and forced to stand witness through the eyes of another to the sights of The March, the true Ancient Enemy. A fearful tale that was as old as the world itself. Nothing more than a story to scare children and for radicals to find belief in, he told himself, once.

  There was a time when he would have scoffed at the entertaining of such things, times when such horrific visions would have frightened him. He could not actually remember the last time he felt fear as he slumbered in a world that could no longer harbor any sight of unsettling horrors. When life showed you what waits, it was easier to rid of worry about the unknown. The unknown in the dark, the unknown in your actions, and the unknown of the next day you wake.

  He had seen his share of aftermaths riddled with many questions without answers. A small settlement of shaman of the Great Fanton, deep in the heart of Northanos, East Morrin of the Avielaeish Mountains, both picked clean of souls and razed. The Iron had assumed marauders or slavers to be the culprits and disregarded the accounts of a mad wanderer found sifting through the remnants. The remaining soul of East Morrin rambled in madness of hooves that singed the ground and a Red King at the cavalcades head. It was sheer lunacy that only convinced that the battered man be sent to Bluehold Asylum. People entrenched too deep into their superstitions were always quick to lay blame at something greater. But Sylo was blind in those days to see the truth, yet he could remember, though, the spattering of hoof prints that looked to cauterize the soil and give some weight to the wander's ramblings.

  A dreadful hoot beckoned him as he slumped in thought. Across the shattered hall, the long-eared owl perched on a broken column stared him oddly. Its plumage rimmed at the edges by the moon glow. Sylo tilted his head and looked into the creatures black pits rimmed in fire. Owls were wardens of magic, people said, able to transcend time, but he found them as just odd beast too curious for their own good. Its presence did intrigue him, though. Of all the things in this world that had an essence he could sense, owls had none. No exclusive mixture of odors or even faint hints of them, almost as if they did not exist. Even the dead have smells. The owl shrugged keeping its eyes at him and let loose another howl. Had it brought him the dream he wondered. Could such a beast wield that kind of power?

  Sylo would not yield in the stare down with the unmoving bird as he rose up to his feet and stepped closer. The owl did not seem disturbed as it studied him under the ambient cool shade of the moon before twisting its head and flying off. Sylo stepped up to the torn away wall, trailing it as it took glide downhill and rested atop the chapel. Guiding bait for another trick perhaps. Under the blue haze of the moon, he made his way down the hill. It was a decent enough track from the old castle and the owl kept guard of him the entire way. A familiar smell wrenched him as he stepped the decline. Sulfur wrapped in dried leather under steel wet with pond scum. That smell of ancient had passed him by before, in the fields of Helbrode.

  The chapel stretched across the land with slender form. Its stone had burdened to the weight of time as gnarled roots reached from the earth pulling at it. He
entered through the gaping archway. Many pleading souls remained in this place, this house of the tormentors. The nightglow pierced in where the structure failed washing the ancient brick and repelling the darkness where it could. Abandoned wildlife nest of straw and dirt clung to the sides beneath rotted furniture.

  He sauntered towards the nave remaining in the shadows. Web drenched pews stood in formation at the sides with the rising scent of fresh, trapped prey. The aura of ancient festered with temper under this hall. A showering of cobalt lit the chancel and in the middle, the cloaked profane Being sat an old celebrant chair facing the ambulatory. The rain of dust swirled down in the beam of light with a faint dance resting at its tattered shroud.

  Sylo stepped between two pillars, staying under the curtain of shadow and observed the unconcerned figure. Was it Man, Elf, or something older? The Being did not stir to his presence as it faced the wall. Its armor shone of burgundy under the light with two twisted scepters sprouting up from its back with gems weakly glimmering in the light of the moon. It was sinful in the eyes of the Gods to grace the chair of a High Priest no matter how long abandoned it had been. The wickedness sat it like a throne of defiance, spitting in their face, gracing the tormentors ruined house of worship.

  The bushy cave spider slept curled in the center of its ornament between the pillars, as Sylo stood dormant, gazing through its weaved pattern. He was certain the Being was unaware of his presence for he allowed none. Not so certain he was not still sleeping up at the castle with his back to the wall. The spider shuffled with agitation as Sylo drug a finger along the web and then slid his fingertips across the wall scraping gravel and dust and rubbed at the coarseness with his thumb. This was no dream. He pushed his coat back over the grip of his short sword, keeping his hand close. Was the point of their ruse for leading him here about to play out?